


Confiteor.

by orange_crushed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have a job," he says, carefully, like Dean is not intimately fucking aware of that situation. Like Dean hasn't been googling grim statistics on gas station robberies and watching clips from <i>Clerks</i> on youtube for the last few weeks like a sad dumb jerk.</p>
<p>"Yeah," Dean says. "I know." He's mangled the check in his hand; he puts it on the table and irons out the wrinkles with his palm. "I got it."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(<i>season 9 alternate future fic</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confiteor.

They're the only ones eating dinner at ten o'clock; there are a couple of teenagers sitting in a booth ordering black coffee and giggling, high-pitched and frantic, every few seconds. There's one old guy on a stool reading the newspaper. But on their side of the restaurant it's just them alone in a booth, with paper placemats advertising local services. Pet grooming, carpet cleaning, home repair. Plumbing. A florist. There's a coupon for a dollar-fifty hotdog and 32 oz drink combo at the Gas-N-Sip. Dean tears it off and shows it to Castiel. "Next time I come and see you," he says. 

"That coupon's expired," Castiel says. Dean peers at the tiny printing and yeah, sure enough, it went out of date last week. Dean feels a weight like lead in the pit of his stomach, he feels ridiculously sad for no reason that he can tell. His face goes warm. But then he looks up at Castiel, and Castiel is smiling, crookedly. "Keep it," Castiel says. "I'll honor it."

"Yeah, okay," Dean says, embarrassed. He shoves it into the front pocket of his jacket. Their burgers show up a minute later, Castiel's smothered in fried onions, Dean's smothered in cheese. "Ugh," Dean says, chewing with his mouth open. "Nothing should taste this good." The meal goes by too quick- Castiel basically inhales his fries, so Dean drops a couple of onion rings into his basket- and it's not just pure gluttony that makes Dean ask for a coffee and a slice of strawberry rhubarb. It'll add another ten, fifteen minutes to their time. Dean doesn't realize he's hoarding it, minutes by the handful, until the clock runs out and the waitress leaves their check on the table face-down. Castiel's hand goes for the slip. "Nuh-uh," says Dean, and snatches the paper out of his fingers. Castiel stares at him. There's a sesame seed on his cheek, off the top of the hamburger bun. 

"I have a job," he says, carefully, like Dean is not intimately fucking aware of that situation. Like Dean hasn't been googling grim statistics on gas station robberies and watching clips from _Clerks_ on youtube for the last few weeks like a sad dumb jerk.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I know." He's mangled the check in his hand; he puts it on the table and irons out the wrinkles with his palm. "I got it."

"Thank you," Castiel says, stiff and formal, even though all Dean is doing is putting down eight bucks for his sandwich and a soda. It makes Dean's smile slide away. Castiel never used to thank him for burgers or french fries or any of the shit Dean used to shove across the table at him for kicks; but back then Castiel didn't require food or drink or new sneakers or dish detergent, and he didn't work six days a week for fucking seven-fifty an hour. And he wasn't paying rent. That's a new development, too. Dean drives him back to his apartment building and parks in the RESIDENTS ONLY spot. He's turning the engine off when a yawn splits his face so wide he has to close his eyes and put a hand over his mouth.

"Mrph," he says, and rubs his face with both hands. "That coffee better kick in."

"It's eleven-thirty," Castiel says.

"I know."

"You're tired."

"Well, yeah," Dean says, kind of irritated. His face feels wobbly again and he yawns one more time, wide as a house. "Shit."

"Stay," Castiel says. Dean freezes, and then turns his head to look at Castiel across the bench seat. Castiel isn't looking at him: he's looking through the windshield at the brick wall, at the VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED sign. "For the night," Castiel says. "I have a sofa now. From craigslist." He looks at Dean, then. "Nora helped."

"Um," says Dean. "If you don't mind-"

"I don't mind," says Castiel.

So Dean follows him up the stairs.

 

 

 

The apartment's not big. But it's clean, and Castiel seems proud of having it and of showing it to Dean. Dean didn't get much of a look at it in daylight: they went in to grab more salt and matches for the hunt, and to change out of the fake fed suits. But they'd been in and out in like seven minutes, and Dean spent most of that in the bathroom alone pulling pairs of pants down and then back up his legs. He did sneak a look into the medicine cabinet: mouthwash, floss, tylenol, antibiotic ointment and band-aids. Nothing strange. Nothing personal, even. Just the same five things from the dollar store toiletries aisle that everybody buys. Dean doesn't want to think about what that means. He doesn't know what he wanted to see. Some kind of special fancy hand lotion, sensitive mouthwash, something that would have indicated taste or preference or habit? Something more human, maybe. Or something less human: freaky cinnamon flavored mouthwash and that lemon toothpaste that nobody likes. Dean doesn't know what the fuck would have made him feel better. 

Castiel doesn't even ask him if his ratty, springless sofa is okay, because he's not a born-human host with the ingrained social tic of continuously apologizing for things, and also probably because on their little wilderness trek once upon a time he repeatedly watched Dean fall asleep on rocks. He leaves Dean alone in the living room-slash-kitchen and goes to get a blanket from his own bed. Dean looks around at the bare little kitchen cupboards and the box of protein bars on top of the little refrigerator. There's a short stack of paperback books from the library on the floor next to the sofa. A couple of novels- _To Kill a Mockingbird, Don Quixote_ , maybe he's is working his way through the classics- and a handful of nonfiction books about United States history. There's also a glossy coffee-table book with a library sticker: 50 years of _People_ magazine. Dean wonders if that one is homework. Castiel has a CD player, with a broken cover that's taped shut and some kid's name written in permanent marker on the lid. And CDs from the library, too. The labels are mostly in languages Dean doesn't know, except for the Beatles. Dean flips through them and tries to read the back covers. When he gets up again Castiel is standing perfectly still in the doorway to his room, holding a folded-up flannel blanket with a strange expression on his face.

"Cool," says Dean. He comes closer, reaches out to take the blanket from Castiel's hands. "Thanks." But Castiel doesn't have it over. Instead he looks at Dean, and then around the room, and back to Dean. His eyes narrow.

"You didn't ask," Castiel says. "About the wards."

"Oh, yeah." Dean glances around. He sees, now, the faint sigils drawn around the top of the ceiling, repeated over and over in a ring. Castiel must have painted them in a shade just darker than the walls, because they're hard to see unless Dean focuses. They could almost be texture, abstract decoration. Neat trick. "That's, uh. That's good. Just for angels, or-"

"Angels and demons." Castiel says. He goes over to the couch and sets the blanket down. His face is oddly blank. "This place is invisible to them both. For the moment."

"Good," says Dean again, feeling like he's completely missed something. "You gotta stay safe."

"You're not worried about being here," Castiel says. Slowly, accusingly. "About being- near me. Despite everything you said before. That I was a target. That it was safer if we were apart." Dean stands in silence. "That I had to leave."

"I didn't-"

"There is something wrong with Sam," Castiel says. Dean's blood goes cold.

"Cas," he says. 

"You weren't afraid for yourself," Castiel says, turning his back to Dean. "You come when I call you. Everything you said, you said to get me away from Sam. That's the thing I can't understand. I've tried to." He runs his hand along the door frame, pausing on a nick in the paint. "If Sam were in danger now, if he were threatened, you'd be with him. You'd be protecting him. You wouldn't be here, acting like-" he stops. "You wouldn't be here at all," he says.

"Cas," Dean says. "I just-"

"If you're going to lie to me again," Castiel says, "you can go."

Dean almost does. His jaw is clenched and his hands are fists and he's halfway to the door before he knows he's moved. He's furious, furious at getting called out, at getting treated like he's some kind of liar, a problem Castiel's solving, and yeah, okay, a big part of that isn't just anger, it's shame. It's low-down dog-belly shame, _fuck_ , Dean is so fucked. He's been bullshitting people so long he probably just forgot who he was talking to. Castiel's not a small-town sheriff or a grieving widow or some dumbfuck Dean is hustling at pool. Dean has his hands on the doorknob and Castiel's still not looking at him, leaning against the doorframe like he's going to collapse against it when Dean goes. When Dean walks out like a fucking chicken. Dean wraps his hand around the lock and puts his forehead against the door. He's just so fucking tired.

"Fuck," says Dean, out loud this time, into the door. And then: "Ezekiel." He sighs: deep, from the gut. He straightens up and turns around and now Castiel's looking at him, head cocked, eyes focused and appraising. "It's Ezekiel."

"I don't understand."

"He came to the hospital. You remember." Castiel nods. "He said he could heal Sam, but he was thrashed. From falling. He couldn't manage. Sam was-" Dean looks down. "It was worse than I said. He was dying, Cas. What was I supposed to do?"

"What _did_ you do?"

"Ezekiel said he could heal Sam from the inside." 

"Sam is his- vessel?" Castiel says. He sounds stunned. "But does Sam-"

"It was a soft yes," Dean says, guiltily. "He kinda, uh, went into Sam's head, and showed him- I think he said he was me, and," Dean shrugs. "Now he's up there. Sam's got no clue. But Ezekiel said, it was either him or you at the bunker." Castiel's eyes narrow to slits. "He said he was healing, it wasn't safe. He said he'd take off again, leave Sam- he threatened me, and I couldn't," Dean says. "I couldn't take the chance, Cas, I'm sorry." He knows how wretched it sounds. How lame, the worst. "I didn't know what would happen to Sam, if he'd- he's so much better," Dean blurts. "You saw. He's healing. What would you have done?"

"I don't know." Castiel sits on the arm of the sofa. He looks at Dean. He's doesn't look so furious anymore; his lines soften. He frowns. "You did what you felt you had to. But I knew Ezekiel." He stares off past Dean, lips drawn into a thin line. "We were- at least I believed we were comrades, if not friends. I would not have harmed him. I would have protected him, and Sam." His shoulder sag down. "As much as I was able." Castiel glances at his hands, spread across his knees; his fingers curl loosely into knots. _Jesus Christ_ , Dean thinks. And I told this guy to take a hike. 

"Cas," he says. He goes over to the couch and sits down on the edge, scoots closer when Castiel turns towards him. Castiel hovers above him, perched, watching. "I don't know why he wanted you gone. But I hope you can believe me when I say, I didn't." Dean swallows, hard. "I didn't want you gone. And I'm sorry."

"I believe you." Castiel reaches down then, and puts his hand against Dean's face. It could be weird, a grown man's palm soft against his cheek, but it isn't. It's so familiar. Maybe Cas has forgotten that he can't heal Dean, or whisk him a million miles away, or do any of the things he used to do with a touch. Or maybe he hasn't. Maybe this is something else. Dean realizes after a second that he's holding his breath. "I miss you. When you're not here."

"I- I miss you, too," Dean says, stumbling over it. He puts his hand over Castiel's, pressing closer into his touch. Dean feels like his heart is racing, thundering, like he's rolling out of a moving car. Is this strange? Do people really do this outside of movies? He doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't want Castiel's hands to stop touching him, to stop bleeding warmth into his skin. He feels so fucking good. But it ends after a second. Castiel's hand drops away and they sit there staring at each other, quiet, in the dark.

"You should get some sleep," Castiel says.

"You, too," says Dean. Castiel nods and stands up, stretching his arms out at his side, rolling his shoulders out. He looks back at Dean. 

"Dean-" he starts, and then his mouth shuts. "Goodnight."

"Night," Dean echoes.

He lies awake for a while after Castiel's door shuts, with the blanket pulled up to his chin. When Dean tries to fall asleep he can still feel that hand against his cheek; the pulse in his wrist, hammering like rain.

 

 

 

When Dean gets back to the bunker Sam is still waist-deep in books, sitting in the library with Kevin and about a hundred pages of notes on the angel tablet. "Yeah, we got nothing new," Sam says, pushing away from the table. He gives Dean a look. "Cas okay?"

"Cas is fine," Dean says. "Hey, Kevin, buddy, can I ask a question?" Kevin glares up at him. "Is that the same pair of pajama pants you were wearing when I left?"

"So?" Kevin asks.

"Okay," says Dean. "That's it. Family trip to Wal-Mart. You need some new pants or else we need some industrial-strength laundry detergent. I swear, I leave you nerds for two days and this place falls apart."

"I'll get my shoes," says Kevin. He gets out of his chair and shuffles barefoot down the hall, towards his room. "But," he calls out, behind him, "we're stopping for chicken!"

"No promises," Dean hollers back. He turns to Sam. "You feeling good?"

"Feeling great," Sam says. 

"Great," Dean repeats. "Feeling free and, uh, e-z." Sam blinks at him. "You know," Dean says, leaning closer. "E. Z." Sam's eyes widen and go electric blue, and suddenly he's not slouching in his chair, he's bolt upright like Dean just called reveille. "There you are," Dean says. "Thought you forgot the safeword already."

"I didn't forget," Ezekiel huffs, out of Sam's mouth. "It's difficult to tell the difference in your inflection between easy and-"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, waving him off. "Here, look at this." He pulls a scrap out of his pocket. It's a crumpled piece of paper dotted with blood and covered in tiny enochian letters. "This make any sense to you?" Ezekiel looks gravely down at it.

"Where did you get this?" he says.

"Cas found it," Dean says. "In the pocket of an angel hunting him. He says the letters are jumbled up. Thinks they might be working in code somehow." Ezekiel frowns, then shrugs.

"It's nonsense," he says. "But leave it with me, I will try to decipher it."

"Okay," says Dean. He slides the paper across the table. There's a noise in the hall. "Back in the box," Dean says. Ezekiel flashes him a narrow look, but he nods and Sam slumps back in his chair, rubbing his eyes a little. "Whoa there," Dean says. "You coming with us or what?"

"Yeah, of course." Sam brightens. "Think we could stop by that juice bar?"

"Gross," says Dean. "No."

But after a Wal-Mart run Dean parks in front of the juice bar anyway and watches Sam and Kevin go inside, babbling about green food or super vegetables or some shit. And then gets his phone out and texts Cas.

_he didn't get it_ , Dean types. _so what now?_

_dean be careful!!!_ , Castiel writes back, almost immediately. _that is not ezekiel!!!_

Dean sends back an _ok got it_ and puts his phone on vibrate and slips it into his jacket pocket. When Sam and Kevin get back- holding enormous plastic cups of what looks like pond scum- he smiles at them and says, "Who's hungry?" He tries not to tighten his hands too hard on the wheel.

"Technically," Sam says, "this has enough nutrients to-"

"Hungry for people food," says Dean.

He keeps smiling.

 

 

 

Dean is sitting in the car about fifteen miles out from the bunker; he told Sam and Kevin he was going for a beer run, but instead he is sitting at a rest stop pull-off area, dialing Castiel's cell phone over and over until he picks up. Finally, he does.

"I'm at work," Castiel says, irritably, though he doesn't hang up like he sometimes does. His breath is huffing into the receiver. "We need to talk quickly." Dean can picture him so clearly, sitting on the concrete outside the gas station in his polyester vest, face scrunched up, phone too close to his mouth. 

"He blew it," Dean says. "He was clueless."

"Ezekiel and I developed that code during the war with Raphael. He would have known it. Unless he did, and for some reason he simply didn't wish to tell you."

"I dunno," Dean says. "He looked blank. Totally blank." Castiel's silent, on the other end of the phone. "He's definitely an angel," Dean says. "But which angel? And why the hell would he just be sitting around inside Sam? He could have killed all of us a dozen times by now."

"I don't have an answer for you," says Castiel. "But I do have an idea."

 

 

 

Sam is asleep on a sofa in the library, book draped across his chest, when Dean comes over and shakes him awake without preamble and says, "ZZ Top," urgently into his face. Sam scrunches his eyes in disgust and starts to say something that is probably _God Dean really what the hell_ , when he snaps upright and his eyeballs go pure blue. "We got a situation," Dean says, to Ezekiel, or to whoever. "There's a problem with the dungeon, Crowley's loose, I can't find the fucker anywhere."

"The demon?" Ezekiel stands up, nudging Dean backwards. "We need to contain him." He hurries down the hall in huge loping strides and pushes through the double doors; Dean follows him into the dungeon and stands back as Ezekiel goes towards the table, the empty chair. He glances back at Dean. "Where are the manacles?" he asks. "Crowley can't have gone-"

-and then Dean drops his lighter, and the ring of holy oil ignites around the outside of the devil's trap. Ezekiel stares at Dean in silence, and then startles at the footsteps behind him. His eyes widen a fraction, and the borrowed jaw twitches.

"Crowley?" Dean asks, over his shoulder.

"Secure," Castiel says, coming through the shelving units. He stands next to Dean and they stare across the flames. 

"Castiel," says the angel, tightly. He looks at Dean. "Sam's not yet-"

"Cut the crap," Dean says. "I know you're not who you say you are."

"If I leave-"

"If you leave Sam, you'll have nowhere to go," Castiel says. He's holding a rag, wiping spare droplets of paint off his hands, totally casual and controlled. Sometimes, seriously, Dean can't believe how fucking cool he is. "You're bound here as long as the sigils hold. You'll be trapped on this plane, but without a vessel. I've heard it's disorienting." He looks up. "Perhaps it's time to stop the lies." The angel in Sam glances around at the ceiling, the walls, and then stares grimly back at Dean. There is a long and painful silence, punctuated by the soft crackle of flames.

"Ramiel," he says, out of Sam's mouth. His eyes go down to the floor, like he's ashamed. "I am Ramiel." Castiel's face registers surprise, and then a kind of wariness.

"I believed you were dead," Castiel says. "Raphael-"

"Raphael slaughtered my garrison," Ramiel says, bitterly. "That much is true. I alone survived."

"How?"

"How do you think?" Ramiel snaps. "I betrayed them. I betrayed you. I am a traitor." He shakes his head. "And a coward. When I fell I thought for a time, if I- if I made myself useful to the Winchesters, you-" he shifts back and forth, not meeting Castiel's eyes anymore. "But there is no escape. Even in hiding I learned what you did to those who stood against you. I expect no less." Dean looks at Castiel; sees his hands twist the rag brutally around his fingers until his knuckles whiten. 

"I am not that creature anymore," Castiel says, finally. "And neither are you."

"You don't know that," Ramiel says. "If you set me free, I could find the others. I know they hunt you. I could tell them-"

"You could kill Sam," Castiel says. Dean turns on him.

"Uh, the _fuck_?" Dean says.

"You could have threatened to kill Sam, when we trapped you. You control him now. He's entirely in your hands," Castiel says. "But you only threatened to leave. You don't truly wish to hurt him." Ramiel doesn't say anything to that. "And did you really think I would hurt you?" Castiel adds, softly. "Now, after-" he makes a small, resigned noise, almost like a sigh. He steps closer to the flames; his skin goes gold, and Dean can't look away from the light on his face, carving him out in hollows and highlights. He looks inhuman again, for a minute: an old god, a saint born in the _auto da fé_. He's just a man but Dean can see it, still, in bright flashes, the lightning coming through the barn doors. He wonders if Castiel knows that. Castiel tilts his head. "Do you think you're the only one who's been used?" Ramiel stares at him. "What did he promise you?"

"An end," Ramiel says. His head droops. "An end to the war."

"I forgive you," says Castiel. Ramiel trembles. Dean's not sure he should even be watching this, that he's even allowed to be here. He feels like he's trespassed in a confession booth, stepped into the middle of someone else's prayer. After a second or two, though, he clears his throat. They both look at him like they're surprised he's still in the room. _Fucking angels_ , he thinks, reflexively. He doesn't bother to correct himself.

"So," Dean says. "What now?" 

"Sam is nearly healed," Ramiel says, hangdog. "Two more days, and I will depart."

"Where will you go?" Castiel asks.

"I will," Ramiel starts, and trails off. Then he squares Sam's shoulders. "I will find someone else who needs me." Castiel looks at Dean and then Dean goes to get the fire blankets; they put out the ring of holy flames and even when they're out Ramiel just stands inside the circle for a couple of seconds more, awkwardly, like an enormous gangly fourth-grader who's not sure whether or not he's just gotten detention. "I should- I will go back to the library," he says. He looks wonderingly down at his hands, Sam's big hands, and then dangles them at his sides. "He would be confused, finding himself here."

"Good idea," Dean says. Ramiel stares at him and then shuffles off down the hallway, long limbs drooping like a plant, all the wind out of his sails. Dean and Castiel watch him until he turns the corner into the library, and after a couple of seconds they hear Sam shouting _you suck Dean, I was asleep for like a minute, you're a friggin' toddler_! Dean looks at Castiel. "We're going to have to watch him," Dean says. "Forgiveness or not." 

"I know," Castiel says. 

"You good with-"

"Kevin and I will put Crowley back," Castiel says. "But you'll have to explain to Sam why I'm here."

"You're here because you belong here," Dean says. When Castiel smiles at him, he pretends like there's not a massive lump in his throat. "End of story."

"Oh," says Castiel.

 

 

 

Sam can't stop asking Castiel excited questions, can't stop leaning across the table and saying _you got an apartment_ in an awed voice and then apologizing and then asking did Castiel meet any other angels while he was out there, did they seem upset or like they were adjusting, what has he been doing, who's Nora, has he seriously been in Idaho this whole time? Castiel talks quietly and smiles at Sam and eats his sandwich. He shoots glances across the table to Dean once in a while, whenever Sam hits too close to answers that will end in, "because you are possessed by an angel." Kevin is still kind of shell-shocked at the angel thing, kind of confused and a little bit mad at Dean, and eating his dinner in his room. Dean doesn't blame him, but he does feel like crap every time he looks across the table and the kid's not in his seat. Dean thinks about that and eats the last pickle and something under the table prods his calf. It's Castiel's foot, wearing a threadbare sock with a Nike logo on it. It's one of the pairs Dean gave him when he left the first time. He's trying to get Dean to focus. Dean tries not to leap out of his seat when Castiel's toes curl under his knee.

"-did you get to Lebanon?" Sam is asking, brow furrowed, and Castiel's mouth is opening and closing like a fish. He is glaring at Dean like, _pay attention and help me, jerkoff_.

"Bus," he says, at the same time that Dean says, _train_. "Bus," Castiel repeats, firmly. Sam looks between them.

"Are you going back?" Sam asks. 

"I don't know," Castiel says, and Dean's head whips around.

"Why on earth would you?"

"My apartment is paid for the rest of the month," Castiel says. "I told Nora I'd be gone until Tuesday. At the very least-"

"You're too good for that popsicle stand," Dean huffs. Castiel's eyes narrow into tiny, furious slits.

"I take pride in my work," he hisses.

"You microwave burritos," Dean yells.

"Dean," Sam says, "let's not-"

"Fine!" Dean says, and shoves away from the table. He picks his dirty plate up and stalks towards the kitchen, not even bothering to turn around. "Do whatever you want!" He throws the plate in the sink and wraps up the lunchmeat and puts it back in the fridge. He opens the fridge door a second time and slams it. He stands there and rubs his face with his hands and wonders how high his tantrum registered on the I'm A Dick scale.

"Dean," Castiel says, from the doorway. Dean turns around and there he is, all rumpled and human in his sock feet, wearing a hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, holding an empty plate in his hand because he finished the sandwich Dean made for him. It's too much.

"I don't want you to go," Dean says, helplessly.

"I know."

"But you're gonna go, anyway, right?" Dean shakes his head. "I screwed up, I screwed us up-" he says, but then Castiel comes forward and drops his plate onto the table and grabs Dean by the front of his shirt and backs him into the refrigerator, and then he is kissing Dean with his lips and his teeth and his whole body, shoving Dean into the handle of the fridge and thumping his head against the freezer door and opening his mouth to slide his tongue into Dean's air and lick him hotly like this is the last five seconds before the heat death of the universe. Dean grabs the back of his head and twists fingers in Castiel's hair, wrecks it, kisses back harder than he's ever kissed anyone in his life, deeper, angrier, with greater joy. "Jesus _fuck_ ," he gasps, when Castiel slides away for a second to suck at his throat, to latch onto his pulse and bite him there, to make Dean's hips jerk up against his. "Cas," he says, and then again, and again: "Cas, Cas, _Cas_." Castiel mouths a wide, wet kiss across his face and then holds him there, inches apart from each other, eyes gripping him tighter than his hands. "Stay," Dean says, breathlessly. "Cas, _stay_." He leans forward and Castiel meets him halfway in a kiss that's softer, slower. They break apart and Castiel says,

"Okay."

"Not just tonight," Dean says. "Not just- a little while."

"Okay," Castiel repeats.

"You're gonna be here when I wake up," Dean says. It ends higher than he means it to, like it's a question. He thinks he sounds sort of drunk. He rubs his face with the hand that's not fisted in Castiel's shirt, because he can feel the blood rushing into his cheeks.

"Yes," Castiel says. "Yes, I promise."

He is.

 

 

_I meant what I said, when I said_  
 _I would rearrange my plans and change for you...  
 _I was bluffing then, but it seems  
_ _that might just have been the truth.__

-Avett Brothers, "I Would Be Sad"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Confiteor (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063927) by [Aja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja)




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